Whatever you say there, sport...

So yeah, we're in the middle of one of those late fall 10-day rains.
One of those deals where staying dry is futile, if you can get where you need to go and your smokes and wallet aren't soaked, you're ahead of the game.
Naturally, there are plenty of folks who have it way worse, we don't really suffer from a monsoon season here, and The Creator knows, it's still King Fuck better than this

happy fucking horseshit.
Anyways, complaining about the weather is like trying to figure out a way to get a girl to enjoy a trip to the hardware store.
Even so, after a few days you start trying to think up a way to rig a dehumidifier to carry around in your pants.

Anyways, I'm on the way in the other morning, and it's you know, just fucking pissing down.
As it does.

And I'm at a light, and this fucking office goofball pulls up beside me, and starts talking to me.

Now, I'll fucking give him this, his timing was impeccable, he started talking at exactly the moment that Crown of Thorns had finished The One and hadn't yet started Rock Steady.

Two seconds either way and I would have just given him the old Headphone Point and waved him off.
Anyways, I turn to look at him and he fucking goes

"Yo wee-oh...spway watoh...in my face"

Uhhhhh, well, OK, dude.
Apparently he was complaining about the integrity of my rear mudflap.
I honestly had nothing to contribute, I just said something like "No shit?".

And then Jean et al kicked in and the light changed.
Whatever, pal.

Raj

ETA: As always, if you're in the dark about the references herein, well, it's high time you stopped being lame, get busy